


Thunder Road

by Murf1307



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nashville, Road Trips, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a warm summer night.  Rossi makes a spontaneous decision, and Reid's along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 JourneyStory Big Bang.

_“We got one last chance to make it real,  
To trade in these wings on some wheels;  
Climb in back, Heaven’s waitin’ down on the tracks.”_  
~ “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen

**Chapter One**

 

The first time he asks Reid to go out with him, he's not quite sure what he means to do once he has him.

But he's on the front porch of the house Reid's renting rooms in anyway, and there's a window open upstairs blaring Bruce Springsteen. Rossi's a sentimental bastard, and this is too damn crazy, too damn perfect.

He raps sharply on the screen door's wooden frame, and then Reid's standing there, staring at him.

"Did Hotch...?"

"No," Rossi says, almost too quick. "I want to take you out."

It's the truth, bare and simple, with no other way to phrase it. He wants to take Reid out right now, just as he is -- Rossi hadn't known before this that Reid even owned jeans, much less wore them, but there they are -- and drive. Maybe it's Bruce singing from upstairs about the night bustin' open, but he wants to take Reid away with him for tonight and just go, the way he used to when he was young.

Reid cocks his head to the side, inquisitive and curious. Then, to Rossi’s utter surprise he relents. "All right."

Rossi steps back and Reid steps out. Rossi appreciates the sight: Reid in denim and cotton, the white t-shirt doing more for him than any dress shirt ever has. His hair is mussed and his movements are unsure but determined.

They walk down to Rossi's car, an old green Chevrolet he's had forever because it's comfortable. Reid, to his surprise, can appreciate a good car, brushing his fingertips across the door to the old-fashioned lock. He looks at Rossi and smiles, shy, like he doesn't know that Rossi's wanted to get him alone like this for years now. "Nice car."

Rossi nods and smiles himself. "Great minds have good taste in cars."

"Actually, Albert Einstein hated driving." Reid's on the verge of a rambling discourse about transportation and genius, Rossi knows, but all he winds up saying is, "But he was an exception."

Rossi can't help but laugh. Reid can have a wicked sense of humor, and this is definitely a manifestation of that, judging from the glint in his eyes. It's one of the things Rossi likes about him, that unexpected humor that so few people get to see.

He pulls open the passenger side door and gestures for Reid to slide in. Reid does, folding up awkwardly. Another thing Rossi likes -- the way this mathematical genius can sit in ways where the lines and angles of his body defy every mathematical concept ever. Rossi walks around to the driver's side and sits down, closing his door the same time Reid closes his.

"Where are we going?" Reid asks, conversationally curious.

"Don't have a destination in mind." Rossi looks over at him. "On nights like this, I just drive. Could last the weekend," he warned.

Reid stills. "And if we get a case?"

"Then we meet the team wherever they're going," Rossi says easily, hoping it's enough. Tonight he feels young, and he wants to enjoy it with Reid.

Reid settles after a moment, the impossible geometry of his limbs relaxing into something more fluid. "So I'm being kidnapped, possibly for the weekend, with only the clothes on my back, by one of the greatest profilers who ever lived. I'm strangely okay with this."

"Good," Rossi says, and hits the gas.

They drive in silence for a while, the top down on the old Chevy, and Rossi wonders what it would've looked like if he'd managed this a year or two earlier, when Reid's hair was still long. As it stands, the wind ruffles the shorter cut and presses Reid's shirt to his chest, and Rossi wonders how Reid isn't drowning in women.

They're headed west toward the setting sun, which is a great red fireball hanging low in the sky, painting the clouds gold and pink and purple.

Reid has his hands resting gently on the dashboard, eyes watching the sunset with a kind of reverent curiosity -- looking toward the future, it seems, as much as toward the sunset. He leans back in his seat, trailing his hand to the radio controls, fiddling with the radio, and there's Springsteen again.

Reid laughs softly. "Springsteen seems awfully apropos."

"He did write a lot of songs about people running off on spontaneous road trips," Rossi agrees.

 _"We got one last chance to make it real,"_ Reid hums along to the radio, voice sharp over Springsteen's radio-scratchy rumble, _"To trade in these wings on some wheels."_

Rossi glances over at him. Reid doesn't have the loveliest voice, but he's pitch perfect -- something that doesn't surprise Rossi at all. Reid continues, barely audible over the rush of wind around them as Rossi breaks the speed limit intentionally. He looks good, the sunlight gilding the edges of his skin and threading through his hair, almost leonine.

Rossi is a profiler, but he is also a writer, and, as much as he hates the cliché, he could write sonnets about the gilt-ivory curve of Reid's throat in the dying light.

He stays quiet, though, clamping down on the unhelpful and writerly words and ideas that try to flood him.

Reid lapses back into silence when the song ends, and the quiet is companionable as the sun finishes setting and Rossi is spared the sight of gilded white skin and gold-threaded hair. They're deep into Virginia now as the stars come out, bright points of light spangling a dark purple sky, unpolluted by human lights.

"'S nice," Rossi murmurs.

Reid seems to understand. "I grew up in Vegas, where it never really got dark, but, once you got out into the desert, it was impossibly beautiful. Quiet, cold, dark, with those brilliant stars -- the diametric opposite of daytime, or even a Vegas night."

Rossi laughs, imagining a little Reid out in the desert, watching the stars. "Commack was practically rural when I was a kid."

"When there were still woolly mammoths roaming Montauk Point?" Reid asks, voice far too innocent.

Rossi shakes his head and grumbles, snatching another glance, and Reid is actually smirking in the dark. Something about the situation is cutting down the walls Reid puts up around people -- even around the rest of the BAU.

This is the moment when Reid's stomach rumbles, loudly.

"Dinner?" Rossi asks.

"Uh, yeah." It's light enough for Rossi to be able to see that Reid's blushing. "I kinda skipped lunch."

Rossi shakes his head, laughing. "And you wonder why your mom's always telling you you're too skinny?" He pauses, looking for the next exit; when he finds one, he takes it, turning onto a two-lane highway with cotton stretching out on both sides.

They find a diner on the outskirts of some nameless one-horse town, staffed by a lone, middle-aged waitress with candy-apple-red hair teased into a bouffant. She gives them a once-over, eyes lingering on Reid's long, lanky form appreciatively, and ushers them over to a corner booth.

Reid glances around the diner, nervous, before sliding into one side. Some memory must be trying to fight its way forward, but Reid won't let it.

"Something wrong?" Rossi asks him.

Reid blinks, and the nervousness fizzles out. He is quiet for a moment, and then says softly, "Gideon."

Rossi's not sure at first, and then the UnSub that broke Gideon comes to mind -- Frank. They'd met in a roadside diner, hadn't they? Of course they had, so Rossi nods, wondering if maybe somewhere else would have been better.

Reid seems okay, though. Maybe saying it helped, because the fluidity to his posture is back; he's relaxed enough to smile. And ask difficult questions of his own, it turns out.

"Why did you do...all of this?"

Rossi doesn't have to answer right away, because the redheaded waitress chooses that moment to ask them what they want. They both order hamburgers -- Reid adds bacon and subtracts onions, and Rossi adds pickles and subtracts mustard.

But the waitress has to give their orders to the kitchen, and Rossi knows precisely when he's fucked, because that's the moment her eyes stop lingering on Reid.

He doesn't know how to explain himself without sounding like a sap, and, however sappy he could get with his ex-wives, he can't do that when he's sitting across the table from a man he works with, who he's heard explain, without mincing words, exactly what kind of fucked-up bastard can slaughter families, or commit brutal rape-murders and take pictures to jack off to later, or kill Emily Prentiss.

But Reid is looking at him, mild and clearly expecting an answer from Rossi-the-brilliant-profiler, not Rossi-who's-been-over-the-moon-for-him-since-practically-the-first-time-he-opened-his-mouth. And Rossi-the-writer can't come up with the words to mediate between the two. 

Thus, Rossi is fucked sideways.

Reid is quiet, though, nonjudgmental, as though whatever Rossi says is just fine. It isn't fair, that this kid has the patience of a goddamn mountain.

Finally, he gives in, and says the stupid thing, the pick-up-line thing: "To seduce you." He hates the word _seduce_ \-- you use that word with women you never intend to see again.

Reid tilts his head, weighing the words. Rossi thinks that he knows exactly why he fell hard for Reid, plummeting down like Alice in the rabbit hole, because when Reid tilts his head like that, thinking at the speed of light, he's beautiful like a long string of just the right words.

"Okay," Reid says, as if testing the word.

It's not a rejection, and that's enough for Rossi. The conversation moves on to safer topics -- fuck, discussing Tobias Hankel or Adam Jackson would be a safer topic tonight.

They're talking Timothy McVeigh when their burgers come, and they tuck in. The food is perfect -- Rossi loves diners, a side effect of being Long Island-born-and-raised -- and the conversation is the same, the way it always is when they talk about the one thing they've both devoted their lives to.

Rossi thinks they've scared the shit out of the waitress by the time they start in on Aileen Wuornos, and it's midway through that conversation when they pay their bill and leave.

Rossi's not sure if he's imagining it, or if Reid is standing just a little bit closer when they're up at the counter, but it's a nice thought.

They're back on the interstate when Rossi realises that Reid hasn't asked any of the awkward questions yet, as if he's reached his awkward questions quota for the night, or the questions don't really matter at this point.

It's incredibly dark now, aside from the stars and the Chevy's headlights, and the conversation wanes away once they try and fail to make sense of Wuornos's "sailing with the rock" comment. By ten o'clock, they've gone quiet again, and Rossi finds himself yawning despite himself. He's tired, yes; it was a long week, yes; but he doesn't want to stop driving.

"Don't fall asleep at the wheel," Reid whispers softly, impishly. "I'd hate to be pulled over without my credentials."

Rossi laughs, awake now, and shakes his head. "Why aren't you more like this with the rest of the team? You've got a wicked sense of humour."

"It kicks in at awkward moments," Reid explains, "And joking at crime scenes and in morgues is kind of poor form."

"Ah."

"And humour is more Morgan and Garcia's department, after all." Reid has one hand on the dashboard, and Rossi can practically sense his focus shift: "You know, I always imagined you'd drive domestic cars."

"I thought there was a moratorium on inter-team profiling, as per the ruling of Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner," Rossi pointed out.

Reid laughs, and Rossi loves the sound. "I seem to remember one David Rossi telling the aforementioned Unit Chief that 'it's not something we can turn off, Aaron, and you know it.'"

Damn that eidetic memory.

"And you wear horn-rimmed glasses and don't drive," he deadpans in reply. "Should I be surprised to find out you're a Whovian?"

"You know the terminology." Reid's tone of voice is thoughtful. "Dare I suspect that you DVR’d _Torchwood_?"

"Guilty as charged. Not my fault American TV's shit."

"Indeed." Reid is clearly a BBC devotee, as evidenced by his next statement: "Have you seen _Sherlock_?"

Rossi nods. "The Granada's better, but it's good."

They argue for a while about which actor played the best Holmes, before concluding that Robert Downey Jr.'s too broad and scruffy, and you can't really compare the Granada Holmes series to _Sherlock_ , due to the changes in setting and addition of regular characters, so why bother?

By midnight they're both yawning, and decide that they need to find a motel before Rossi passes out and crashes them into a ditch.

They almost don't, though.

"It was on her list," Reid murmurs when they pull into the parking lot. Rossi knows exactly who he's talking about, and grief flares, brief and icy, in his chest.

Rossi almost reaches out. "We can probably find a Holiday Inn -- we don't have to stop here," he offers, clumsily.

"No, it's fine. We both need sleep." Reid unlocks his door and steps out of the car quick as an escape artist, in one flowing motion that's just a little bit heartbreaking -- Reid is always doing things for others, never for himself.

"Get back in the car," he says. "We'll find somewhere else."

Reid just stands there, looking at him like he's grown another head, hand tight on the open door of the Chevy. It's a deer-in-the-headlights look, and Rossi's just this close to sliding over to pull Reid back down. He doesn't, though, because he's the crappiest kidnapper ever and can't force Reid to do anything.

Then Reid sits down, quietly, swinging his long legs back into the car. He looks unbearably sad.

"I really am the shittiest kidnapper ever, aren't I?" Rossi asks, trying to lighten the deathly tone the night had taken and flooring the gas pedal. It's half-past midnight on an interstate; the only people out are going to be truckers, really dedicated RVers, and serial killers. Or some combination of the above, really. Nobody that's going to care, anyhow.

Reid huffs a half-chuckle. "You can pick up your award in custody at Quantico after Garcia tracks us down."

"Hey, I brought my phone. No tracking down necessary."

The Holiday Inn they're looking for is in the next town over, fifteen minutes away, and by one a.m. Rossi is at the desk, signing out a room for "just tonight yes leaving in the morning thank you no we don't want room service yes we would like the full in-room minibar now can we get a key please."

When he gets back to Reid, who's sitting impossibly still in the car, he drops the keycard into Reid's lap.

There's tension in the air, but Reid stands up with the key and gets out of the car. Rossi hopes that the tension will fade, because he doesn't want this to end badly. He's surprised when Reid enters his personal space, close enough to touch. He almost does, but isn't sure if Reid has even noticed.

They are silent as they find the room and step inside. Two beds; Rossi had been insistent on that with the receptionist.

Reid sits down on the bed nearest the window, which is covered by a thick, heavy curtain. He looks carved from sorrow again, and Rossi can't help himself this time; he crosses the room and grips Reid's shoulder. He doesn't speak, because words are failing, and when it comes to Reid, it has always been the deeds that matter.

"I'm sorry," Reid starts, looking at Rossi's hand and fiddling with the comforter of the hotel bed.

"Don't be," Rossi replies. There's nothing to be sorry for.

Reid shakes his head. "No, no. You've done all of this, and you're trying to do everything and I'm just making it more difficult for you because I can't forget and I..." Reid takes in a rattling breath, and Rossi wants to throttle whoever it was who convinced Reid that he isn't worth the effort.

"It's all right," Rossi hushes him. "It's all right."

But Reid is floundering now, under the weight of grief and the unnecessary shame that the grief causes. He hunches over, leaning his forearms along his thighs, and Rossi's hand slides over his back.

Rossi wonders what has held Reid together for so long, through everything he's been through, what mechanism is failing now.

Rossi does something that, before tonight, would have been unthinkable: he sits down next to Reid on the edge of a bed in a Holiday Inn just east of the Tennessee/Virginia border and reaches out to hold his hand. It is shaking and slender and pale and maddeningly soft; Rossi isn't sure he'll ever be able to let go.

"She left," Reid whispers. "To protect us. Instead of letting us help" -- Reid lets out a sudden fierce and mirthless laugh -- "she sacrificed herself to save us."

Rossi squeezes Reid's hand. "She was that way, I think. She'd rather risk herself than us."

Reid nods and, to Rossi's surprise, turns his hand to lace his fingers with Rossi's. The gesture is soft and sweet and so utterly, disarmingly Reid that Rossi wants to do something more. He isn't sure what, but he wants to do something, right now.

"Thank you," Reid whispers, a sincere, shattered sound.

"You're welcome." Rossi tacks on a silent always and goes quiet for a long time, holding Reid's hand and waiting for him to stop shaking.

Presently, Reid straightens up and turns enough to meet Rossi's eyes. Reid's are tawny in colour and dark with sorrow, and Rossi loves them like he loves everything else about Spencer Reid, with a reckless abandon he hasn't felt since long before his third divorce. Reid is searching his eyes, and Rossi wonders what he's looking for.

A long moment passes in silence, and then Reid whimpers and leans in to bury his face in the juncture between Rossi's neck and shoulder. He is sobbing now, the floodgates finally opening. Rossi brings his other arm up to pull Reid close.

He's not sure when exactly he falls asleep, but he wakes up with Reid still wrapped around him. They're half on the floor, and Rossi's back and neck will be screaming when he tries to move, but he can't really be fucked to care. Reid is leaning on him heavily, face still buried in his neck, and his hand is still entangled in Rossi's. He's still asleep, breath coming long and slow and deep. Rossi doesn't think he's ever seen Reid looking so peaceful. It's as breathtaking as the sunset-tinged Reid from yesterday was, in a slightly different way.

Reid's eyelashes flutter against Rossi's throat. His arm is still slung loosely around Rossi's waist, and Rossi goes stock-still, realising for the first time that holy shit he is holding Spencer Reid.

The implications are staggering. He just let Reid cry himself to sleep on his shoulder and is still holding him -- the next morning -- like a romantic old fool.

The fact that he is a romantic old fool does not escape him, but being and acting like are two very different things. He is rather unable to let go, and rather loath to, actually, because God only knows if he'll ever get the chance to hold Reid again.

He is lost in trying to convince himself to move when a sleepy "Good morning" nearly makes him jump a foot in the air.

"Good morning?" He hadn't meant that to sound like a question, but his pulse is thundering because Reid's arm has tightened around his waist and it seems that the genius is not a morning person, as he doesn't seem inclined to move.

"Thank you," Reid murmurs again. "I'd rather like to stay like this for awhile." It is quite clear that Reid is still half asleep and a fucking cuddler, and if Rossi hadn't been thoroughly lost before now, the sleepy way Reid seems so comfortable around him would completely undo him. As it stands, Rossi finds himself thinking that this is possibly one of the top five mornings of his life, along with several poetic endearments that he most certainly will not be spouting off anytime soon.

"Fine with me," he manages, and Reid hums contentedly.

A long moment passes before Reid seems to realise the position he is in and straightens up so fast he bangs his nose on Rossi's jaw.

"Oh my God," Reid says, flushing. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

Rossi raises his eyebrows. "Don't be," he says, reminded uncomfortably of last night's conversation.

"Did you sleep at all?" Reid looks terrified.

Rossi can't help but laugh. "Yes. Just woke up, actually. My back'll kill me when I move, but it'll make for a damn interesting obituary."

Reid grins, a welcome sight. "Looks like old age is calling," he says impishly. "Though it will likely take quite a bit of explaining -- I don't think death by backache has ever occurred before."

"It's too bad," Rossi grumbles without venom, "I was thinking about ordering in some breakfast, but now I think I'll have you suffer without your coffee for that one." He tries to rise, realising after a moment that he is still holding Reid's hand.

"Um," Reid opines as both of them look down at their linked hands.

"Um," Rossi agrees, slipping his hand out of Reid's light grip and heading for the bathroom. "Feel free to order in, if you want."

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror and wonders for the first time what the fuck he's doing. He honestly hadn't expected to even convince Reid to come with him, much less to have had spent the night just holding his hand. He's a little in awe and fucking terrified of what to do next, because this is Spencer Reid, who knows everything except how actual relationships with actual people work, and Rossi may have an impressive bedpost, but he's never actually been good at relationships either -- as three divorces can mightily well attest.

He stands there, leaning heavily on the bathroom counter and trying not to freak out completely. He can hear Reid on the phone -- probably with room service, because the kid can't survive without his morning cup of coffee -- and he has no idea what any of it means.

A long moment passes, and then Reid is knocking gently on the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

Not remotely, but he can't hide in the bathroom forever. He shakes his head and opens the door. Reid looks rumpled and concerned, head tilted and posture still loose from sleep.

"'M fine," Rossi assures him.

It seems to placate Reid, at any rate, and Rossi vacates the bathroom. Reid is still inside when the room service arrives. The waitress is pretty and utterly vapid, chattering his ear off as he manoeuvres two trays into the room and onto the tiny round table that apparently is meant to serve as a dining surface.

Reid has ordered pancakes and a large Belgian waffle. The waffle appears to be meant for Rossi, as it is accompanied with a bowl of pineapple and a black coffee. The coffee cup next to the pancakes already has either milk or cream in it, and Rossi takes neither, while Reid is allergic to pineapples. Rossi does, however, have a weakness for a good Belgian waffle, and Reid appears to have remembered that.

Reid appears in the bathroom doorway, and his hair is damp. "Oh, good, breakfast."

Rossi grins. "I'm guessing the one with the pineapple's mine?"

"Unless I'm planning on blowing up like a balloon, which I'm not," Reid retorts. He crosses the room and takes the chair in front of his tray. Rossi realises that there are a couple of additions to the trays that generally don't turn up: whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and marshmallows.

Reid proceeds to add these things to his pancakes, which are already chocolate chip. Rossi shakes his head in awe.

"All right, scratch what I said last night; I have no idea how you're like a stick with eyes." Reid looks at him speculatively before starting in on the pancakes. Rossi looks at the whipped cream and thinks to himself, ah, fuck it, and douses his waffle in it.

Reid is silent, but Rossi can practically feel the waves of smug insolence radiating from him.

They finish breakfast in companionable quiet. Reid eats slowly, gracefully -- though, according to hearsay, chopsticks still make him fumble -- and Rossi tries not to watch him. He doesn't fail too miserably.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Reid finally asks.

"More driving, I guess." Rossi hasn't thought about it at all. He isn't even sure where they are, exactly. "Do you have anything in mind?"

Reid shakes his head. "We should probably get a map."

Right, a map. And then a plan.

"We're still in Virginia, but it's only a few more miles to the Tennessee line, I believe." Reid doesn't seem to notice that once again, his eidetic memory has saved the day -- and Rossi's pride.

They check out of the hotel, sliding back into the Chevy. Reid looks comfortable, and Rossi thinks that if he can keep Reid this comfortable for the rest of the weekend, he'll consider it a weekend well-spent. He glances at Reid, who doesn't seem to mind that there's no plan.

"Which direction do you want to take?" Rossi asks, because he honestly has no idea which way they ought to go.

Reid arches an eyebrow. "I don't have a preference. We've been heading west since we started, which will eventually put us in Nashville in a few more hours. That's as far as we can go and still get back to Quantico before tomorrow night." He pauses. "Do you want to keep heading west?"

"No reason not to. We've never been to Nashville, have we?" Rossi peels out of the parking lot and makes for the interstate.

Reid tilts his head. "Actually, we haven't."

"Good, then; it's someplace that won't have us reminiscing." Rossi tries to think of anything he can possibly remember about Nashville, but all he knows about the city is that it's like Hollywood for country music, which isn't going to help.

It is quiet for a long time, and Rossi tries to keep his mind off of the man in his passenger seat. Eventually, he gives in and breaks the silence. "So, what do you want to do when we get there?"

"I don't know. The 'tourist thing,' I suppose?"

"Sure."


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

 

They pull into Nashville, and all Rossi says is "I was expecting more cowboy hats."

Reid looks over at him and shakes his head, laughing. "Maybe they come out at night?" he offers impishly.

Rossi grins. "Are we staying the night to check?"

"I can't see why not." Reid smiles back.

They stop for lunch in a McDonalds, because it’s close. Rossi orders cheeseburgers, whereas Reid goes for chicken nuggets.

When Rossi takes his first bite, he realizes there is _mustard_ on his burger.

That has to be one of the Seven Deadly Sins, he thinks, up there with hating baseball and never playing dodgeball as a kid. He pulls the offending piece of cheeseburger out of his mouth and makes a face. “Mustard,” he explains.

Reid’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. He just pushes one of his boxes of chicken nuggets over to Rossi’s side of the table and exchanges it for the other cheeseburger.

“Is this another Long Island thing?” Reid asks, tilting his head.

Rossi nods, a bit put out by the whole thing. “Like getting pizza anyplace but Long Island or the City. Can’t believe I forgot about mustard.”

Reid smiles gently. “The pizza thing probably has to do with the local water supply.”

“Thanks for the science lesson,” Rossi grumbles back, but without any real venom. He begins to eat the chicken nuggets, and watches as Reid eats his cheeseburger. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible that Reid isn’t dead by now – he clearly has no real taste in condiments, which is an absolutely terrible sign.

He points this out, and Reid almost chokes on the bit of burger in his mouth. When he recovers, he says, “Not all of us are from New York, Rossi. We can’t _all_ have such discerning palettes.”

There’s a soft, fond smile in his eyes and voice that is utterly irresistible, and Rossi almost misses the fact that he’s being teased to hell and back. Somehow, he doesn’t care enough to be insulted, and just smiles back.

Their attempt at minigolf is a disaster, but absolute comedy gold, Rossi decides as the fifteenth golf ball sinks into the nearest little pond.

Reid glowers at him. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

They’re only on the fourth hole, to put the golf ball thing into perspective.

“I’m not laughing. Your failure at minigolf is serious business, after all,” Rossi replies, smirking. “A life or death matter.”

“You’re horrible,” Reid mutters.

But the next ball sinks into the hole with one stroke.

Huh, apparently, if you goaded him enough, Reid could manage it. Rossi kept that in mind for the next few holes.

By the final hole, Reid’s score is somewhere up around one hundred and twenty, but Rossi stopped counting at hole seven, so he could be off by a couple dozen. Reid hands his golf club back to the girl at the desk rather more emphatically than is entirely necessary, and Rossi only barely keeps from laughing.

Instead, he hands his own club back and asks her, “What’s the nicest hotel in the area?”

She pauses for a moment, and then her lips start twitching, and then she begins to laugh. She laughs for a long time, eventually going silent for lack of breath – but still laughing nonetheless. Rossi and Reid watch her, and Rossi wonders what in God’s name is so funny.

Finally, she regains control of herself, gasping for air. “Um, it’s the, uh…” She giggles again, and leans in close. “Uh, the…the Gaylord Opryland. It’s very close. Ya cain’t really miss it.”

Reid has turned bright red at the girl’s implications, and Rossi rolls his eyes.

Some people have no sense of maturity.

Shopping for something nice to wear to a tour of the Grand Ole Opry is something the torture-masters of the Spanish Inquisition would have approved of.

First off, Rossi notes, Reid is uncomfortable with Rossi paying for everything. Which is rather endearing, actually, but also horribly inconvenient. Nonetheless, Rossi insists – and appeals both to Reid’s tidiness and logic – and so they shop.

Secondly, there is Reid’s fashion sense, or lack thereof.

Nothing more need be said about that.

But, eventually, they each find something reasonable. Or, in Reid’s case, far more than reasonable. 

In fact, it might be unreasonable in the other direction, given that now, Rossi can’t stop looking.

He’s managed to cajole Reid into a wine-red button-down and a dressier pair of jeans, and they suit Reid as much as anything he’s ever worn – almost better in a way. Rossi imagines what Reid would look like if he had the glasses on, too, and his mind goes a little pornographic.

He tries to block out the image and steps strategically behind a shelf.

“I feel like I need a tie.”

“It’s fine. Just undo the top button,” Rossi tells him, mouth drying out as Reid complies with his request. Reid’s throat has always been as fascinating as it is statuesque, a white column he’d expect to see on a statue way too expensive to be reasonable.

Reid looks at him in the mirror, and there’s a spark.

Something twists in Rossi’s gut, but he doesn’t look away, and the moment fades out on its own, as moments tend to do.

They pay for the clothes with little ceremony, and then they duck into a public bathroom to change into them. Rossi himself isn’t dressed much differently than he normally does, but he observes himself in the bathroom mirror, judging and finding himself well-dressed enough, considering the circumstances. Reid is still in one of the stalls.

When Reid is visible again, dressed in the collared shirt and jeans, something flutters in Rossi’s stomach. Fucking butterflies, he realizes belatedly.

This is starting to feel a hell of a lot like a date.

But, Rossi thinks as he gives Reid another glance, that might be a good thing.

The tour of the Grand Ole Opry House is actually somewhat dull. The tour guide is nervous, probably new at her job, and she keeps stealing glances his way.

He wonders if she recognizes him, and decides it doesn’t matter.

When they finally get out into the sunlight, Reid is rambling on about the things he’s just learned and how they connect to things he’s just remembered he knew. Rossi listens, but moreso for the sound of Reid’s voice than for the words coming out of his mouth.

It’s starting to get a little dusky out, so Rossi asks, “Do you want to go get dinner?”

Reid nods. “We could head to the, uh, hotel.”

Rossi chuckles at the soft flush suffusing Reid’s face. He’ll admit that the name of the hotel is amusing, but, according to the chatty receptionist at the Opry House, it’s also the nicest hotel in the vicinity – and, since he is David Fucking Rossi, he will spare no expense when given the opportunity.

They get in the old green Chevy, and head toward the hotel. The wine-red of Reid’s shirt adds to the reds and pinks and golds of the sunset, which makes Reid into an even more breathtaking sight, and Rossi does his best not to stare.

But glances every now and then seem to be all right – at the very least, they’re not causing him to crash the car, which is all he really asks for.

They pull up to the hotel, and it is absolutely lovely, with antebellum-looking columns amidst a great mass of greenery. Exactly the sort of place Rossi would have planned to go, if any part of this whole trip had been planned and not made up out of thin air as they went along.

He gets out of the car and, feeling an unexpected bout of chivalry, he walks around to Reid’s door and opens it for him.

Reid raises his eyebrows but accepts the gesture. It’s not long before they’re inside. Rossi handles the concierge with practiced elegance, charming her – a surprising amount of women behind desks today in Nashville, he notes – and getting them a Presidential suite.

“That was good,” Reid murmurs to him, nudging him in the arm. 

Rossi shrugs. “Bestselling author; you don’t get good at it unless you get good at people.” He looks around the hotel’s atrium. “You want dinner first, or drinks?”

“Dinner,” Reid says, and curls a hand under Rossi’s elbow, tugging him toward the nearest in-resort restaurant, which is a little Irish pub called Findley’s. 

It turns out to be quite good – they certainly can handle their potatoes – but the conversation is better. Though it mostly winds up being about recent cases, and recent things – Ashley’s transfer out of the unit and Aaron’s impending trip to the Middle East for example – Reid manages to make it all sound interesting and almost new.

When they’re finished with their beef stew and beers, Rossi is the first to get up. “You want to take a walk? This place looks like it could do with some exploring.”

Reid smiles. “I’d like that.”

They leave the pub and head back into the atrium, which is full of fountains and leafy green trees and bushes. They loiter there for a few moments, looking around. It’s beautiful, Rossi thinks, and makes a mental note to come back again some day.

From there they head for the Falls Bar, which is built up from stone and draped in plant life. Rossi grabs each of them a glass of wine and a shot of whiskey – bitter and sweet, just how life is, and how it ought to be.

Reid laughs when he says that, and toasts: “To bitter and sweet.”

“You don’t toast with a shot, idiot,” Rossi counters amicably before knocking back his own.

Music is floating down from somewhere invisible, and they sit side-by-side and silent for a while, listening to it. Rossi’s never been big on country, but this one is forceful and sweet, by one of the newer artists.

He’s surprised when he realizes that Reid is humming along.

Then, Reid catches him looking, and smiles, just as the song proclaims, and I see sparks fly whenever you smile.

Rossi thanks God for musicians and, tentatively, reaches for Reid’s hand under the bar. The smile doesn’t abate, and there might just be something burning in Reid’s tawny eyes. Rossi feels his throat stop up, but, in the end, it doesn’t really matter, because he knows what he needs to do.

He stands up and pulls Reid with him. “You wanna head back to the room?”

Reid nods silently, and doesn’t let go of his hand.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 

They fall against each other in the elevator, Reid laughing softly in Rossi's ear and sliding an arm around his waist. "I was hoping you'd ask me that."

Rossi chuckles back, high on the feel of Spencer Reid laughing against him and holding onto him. "I didn't think I ought to just drag you away and have my wicked way with you. Though I somehow don't think you'd mind much, would you?"

"Not at all," Reid murmurs in reply as he pulls away -- only a little, only enough to lead Rossi out of the elevator, down the hall, and into their room. "I am particularly not averse to the idea of you, ah, having your wicked way with me," he says as he pulls Rossi close and leans him up against the wall by the door, "so long as you let me have my wicked way with you, too."

Rossi grabs Reid's shoulders and spins them around, so that Reid is against the wall. "Psh, you don't have a wicked bone in your body."

"Are you certain of that, Dave?" Reid's voice goes low and throaty on Rossi's name, though his cheeks have flushed a very nice shade of pink, and Rossi smirks and cants his hips against Reid's. Reid gasps and twitches his hips in reply.

Rossi smirks. "Prove me wrong, then."

"Gladly." Reid begins with enthusiasm, his hands sliding up Rossi's chest, rubbing little circles until he finds Rossi's nipples through his shirt. He hums in satisfaction when Rossi takes a sharp breath, and then he bends his neck to whisper in Rossi's ear. "I've been thinking about doing that for years. Practically since we met."

Rossi groans. "You nuts? I was a middle-aged asshole when we met."

"You're still a middle-aged asshole, but I don't mind," Reid says amicably, pressing a kiss to Rossi's earlobe. "And you're brilliant and witty and good-looking. I had a, um, a crush on you when I was nineteen."

"You are nuts." Rossi runs his hands over Reid's upper arms -- Reid's too skinny to call them "biceps" -- and wonders how in hell he managed to pull this off.

"I was working on my BAs and had a class that read one of your books. Your memoir of your career. The way you talked about what you did in those days -- how passionate about stopping evil and saving the innocent you were. It made me think that maybe there were still heroes in the world." Reid's face is buried in Rossi's neck as he speaks, his breath warming him almost as much as the words do.

Rossi brings a hand up to touch Reid's face. "I hope I didn't disappoint you," he whispers. He thinks he must have, repeatedly.

"Do you remember Las Vegas?" Reid murmurs, pulling back to meet his eyes. Rossi nods, and Reid continues, "You stayed. We hardly knew each other, and you stayed."

There's something almost shy in Reid's gaze, and Rossi wants to kiss him. "I'm not a hero," he protests.

"You're you, though." The sentence doesn't make any logical sense, but Rossi understands, and it kind of scares him; this is the kind of steady, unwavering confidence that, though Rossi is a middle-aged asshole with three failed marriages and decades of mistakes to his name, Rossi is still worthy of Reid's trust. It is quiet, and strange, and beautiful.

Rossi isn't sure how to deal with it. None of his wives ever felt this for him -- but they were normal women who knew nothing of death the way Reid does, who never spoke of compassion to men incapable of it.

"Thank you," he finally manages.

Maybe Reid can read the fear he's feeling, because he moves his hands from Rossi's chest up to his face, thumbs skimming his cheekbones, and then down again, to cup his jaw. It is a soft, intimate gesture, and he is still looking into Rossi's eyes.

The moment hangs as Rossi becomes aware that they are pressed against each other from shoulder to knee. He makes a decision then, and leans in to kiss him.

Reid seems to have made the same decision, though, and they both tilt their heads in the same direction and they bump noses. Rossi chuckles and Reid flushes bright red before visibly steeling himself and trying again, pulling Rossi's face in the right position and fitting their lips together with purpose.

Angels don't start singing the Hallelujah Chorus in Rossi's head. Their mouths are closed and Reid's lips are chapped, and Reid's arms are bent up between them in a way that Rossi's sure can't be comfortable for Reid, but the pure force of will behind it and the emotions trapped inside it have him kissing back almost instantly. He doesn't move his lips, really, just presses against Reid's. He stays there, wondering at the way Reid can kiss him like this, like he's never kissed anybody, but have it still be absolutely fucking brilliant.

They pull apart for air, and Rossi looks up into those tawny eyes and thinks that, yeah, he's screwed. There's no way in hell those eyes will ever stop making him think of this moment.

He doesn't give a shit, though, and leans back up for another kiss, this time moving gently against Reid's lips, as gently as he can. He has obviously lost his mind, because he thinks that, despite the fact that he wants more, wants everything, he'd be fine if he spent the whole night like this, trading soft, middle-school kisses with Dr. Spencer Reid.

"My God," he whispers when next they part, breaths mingling between them.

Reid licks his lips nervously, as though he didn't hear the awe in Rossi's voice. Rossi almost laughs, but instead brings his hands up to Reid's and pulls those long slender fingers down so he can lace them with his own. He smiles and squeezes Reid's long white hands, and Reid's face splits open into a wide, joyous grin. Rossi loves that smile, and euphoria threatens to overwhelm him as he promises himself he'll do whatever he can to make sure he sees it as often as possible.

"Dave," Reid says, as though he can hardly believe this is happening. "Dave, when did you...?"

"Fall for you?" Rossi finishes, and Reid nods, looking curious and just a little insecure. Rossi pulls Reid toward the bed and they sit, hands still interlaced. "Not really sure. I figured out I liked your mind almost immediately, once I realised you weren't trying to show everyone up. As for your body" -- he lets himself run his eyes down Reid's body as he pauses -- "In Philly, on the case with the storage bin. You kept leaning over my shoulder, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to touch you."

"Really?" Reid squeaks, as though he can't believe it's been that long since Rossi first thought of him that way.

"And," Rossi says, letting go of one of Reid's hands to curl one of his own in the hair that's as soft as he'd always imagined it would be, "When we did that case with the doll collector, and you tore her father a new one, that -- God, that was something."

Reid blinks, leaning his head into Rossi's hand. "Really?" he repeats.

"When you let yourself take charge, you look like you could take on the world and win." It's true, and Rossi punctuates it with another kiss, softer and slower and wetter, though he doesn't open his mouth.

"They say confidence can be extremely attractive," Reid whispers, and his free hand comes up to gently touch Rossi's goatee. "When you interrogated Henry Grace, it was a lot like reading that book again -- but with more...when I read your books, I didn't think about you, uh, pushing me up against a wall and...and c-claiming me."

That sends a primal surge of want through Rossi, and he unlaces his hand from Reid's. He slides his hand up his arm and shoulder, and then stands, his knees touching Reid's; he pushes his fingertips against Reid's chest and then asks, "Do you want me to claim you?"

It's a stupid way to phrase it, but he means it. He wants Reid, has wanted him for over three years now, has loved him for at least one of those years. He wants to "claim" Reid, and wants Reid to claim him back. "Spencer..."

The sound of his given name makes Reid's eyes snap to his. Reid's breath has gone ragged. "Do you want to?"

The question is almost plaintive, heartbreakingly so, because how many times has Reid been hurt, been abandoned? Too many; enough to make this harder than it should be.

"No. I want you to do the claiming."

Reid's eyes go wide and his face flushes again. Rossi leans down and kisses Reid again, this time opening his mouth and waiting.

Reid seems to know, now, just what to do, because his tongue is in Rossi's mouth, sliding over lips and teeth and tongue, and he is careful and sensual and Rossi wonders for an instant where he learned this.

Rossi reciprocates, licking at Reid's tongue in invitation. This has all been about invitation, about asking. So, wordlessly, he does.

Reid makes a noise that's halfway between a gasp and a moan, and suddenly his hands are on Rossi's face and in his hair, pulling him down toward him. He overbalances and then they're flat on the bed, their legs dangling off. Rossi makes an 'oof' noise and their teeth clack together painfully when they hit the bed.

He pulls back, levering himself up to look down at Reid, who looks confused and embarrassed. He smiles and leans down again, gently kissing Reid before rolling off of him.

"Christ," he says, grinning. "That was good."

Reid leans up on an elbow, smiling now. "Good. Because, minus the falling over, I'd like to do it again." He turns over, kicking out of his shoes and wriggling up so that he's kneeling on the bed. "Come on."

Rossi sits up and shakes his head, his grin turning wicked. "Are we startin' off vertical or horizontal?"

"Which would you prefer?" Reid sounds almost clinical as Rossi works his feet out of his boots. "I mean, I don't exactly wind up in this situation often, so I haven't really developed a preference."

"We're gonna have to work on that 'not getting laid' thing you've got goin' on," Rossi counters, smiling. "And it depends on how fast you wanna go tonight -- start vertical if you want to take it slower." He gauges Reid's body language and thinks about kicking himself; how does he know if Reid wants to have sex tonight? They've only just admitted to three years of romantic tension, after all.

Phenomenal foot-in-mouth, David, says his Inner Critic, who sounds remarkably like his mother.

But Reid doesn't seem to notice the sudden inner conflict, because he fucking pounces, and that leonine comparison from yesterday? Totally apt. Now Rossi is flat on his back underneath Reid, who proceeds to splay his fingers over Rossi's face, tracing each line and contour and crease, his eyes half closing.

His fingers linger in Rossi's beard, and Rossi connects the dots. "You have a thing for facial hair?"

"No," Reid answers, dropping a quick, close-mouthed kiss to Rossi's lips. "Just yours. It suits your face." He smiles. "And I like your face."

Rossi grins, and then hooks a hand behind Reid's neck for a hot, wet kiss. They are chest-to-chest, and Reid is humming into Rossi's mouth, and it makes Rossi think of Walt Whitman, inexplicably. He dredges up a memory and quotes the poet, "Only the sound I like, the hum of your valved voice," when Reid pulls back to breathe.

"Whitman," Reid breathes, lips quirking. "This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,/This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning." He punctuates the quote by dragging his fingers down Rossi's jaw.

Rossi's breath quickens. "Only you would not only recognise an obscure Walt Whitman quote, but go on to turn me on with more of the same," he says, shaking his head in wonder.

"Whitman turns you on?" Reid leans down and kisses his way up Rossi's throat.

"You turn me on," Rossi counters. "I like that you know all the crazy shit you know, and that you can quote Whitman and Shakespeare and practically every famous dead poet."

This admission earns him another kiss that burns, and he moans. Reid seems to react instinctually to that, his hips shifting against Rossi's, and Rossi shifts right back, lifting his hips off the mattress to press against Reid from lips to groin. "Oh, fuck," Reid murmurs against his mouth.

Reid doesn't swear, and hearing the word fall absently from his lips is quite possibly one of the sexiest things that has ever happened to Dave Rossi.

Rossi moans and flattens a hand on the small of Reid's back, slipping it up underneath the white t-shirt. Reid gasps at the touch, arching up into it and scrambling with his hands to start in on the buttons on Rossi's shirt. His hands are shaking, and Rossi takes the opportunity to start pressing kisses to Reid's face and neck. 

"Stop that," Reid whispers. "I'm, ah, trying to undress you, and you're making it difficult for me to --"

Rossi yanks Reid down into another kiss, and then slides his hands up to brush Reid's hands out of the way. He begins unbuttoning the shirt himself, having successfully distracted Reid, and tries to fathom how in hell he wound up in Tennessee being undressed by Spencer Reid. Turns out it's fathomless, and he gives in, guiding Reid's hands back to his chest, letting him shove the parted cloth aside and touch bare skin.

Reid's fingers are gentle, and Reid pulls back, looking almost shy. He rocks back onto his knees and scoots forward to straddle Rossi's hips, and he groans when he makes contact.

"Oh, god," Rossi moans back. "Oh god."

Reid drops down for another kiss, hands dragging gently down Rossi's chest, his tongue making slow circles inside Rossi's mouth. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide that his eyes are more black than hazel. He is looking down at Rossi, and Rossi doesn't think he's ever seen anything quite as erotic as Spencer Reid straddling him, lips reddened from kissing.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Rossi points out, not too sure he really cares about the amount of clothing Reid's got on, as long as Reid keeps looking at him like this.

Reid tilts his head to the side. "So're you." He punctuates the statement by grinding down on Rossi's hips.

"You gonna -- hahh -- do somethin' about that?"

"Maybe," Reid replies, a smile pulling at his lips. "But maybe not. Maybe you should take that into your own hands?"

Rossi raises an eyebrow, shifting up onto his elbows. "Y'know, you can be damn evil when you want to be," he grumbles affectionately, and starts in on Reid's fly. Reid only groans in response, so Rossi continues, keeping as much of his head as he can.

His knuckles brush against the bulge in Reid's jeans and he wonders when it was that he last felt fucking sparks during sex. He decides not to think about it and refocuses on what he's doing, because Reid has just whimpered at his touch. God, that's hot, he thinks, but he's completely tongue-tied and he finally finishes with the fly and pushes at the jeans, palming Reid's erection, which elicits a moan and a jerk of Reid's hips --

\-- Which, due to their position, sends a jolt of arousal through Rossi's own (and, up to now, rather neglected) erection. He moans, and Reid's eyes snap to his. 

"Good?" Reid asks, the word halfway to a gasp.

Rossi nods and flicks his thumb over Reid's bulge. After Reid finishes a noise in between a whine and a groan, Rossi moves his hand away and asks, "Good?"

"Evil," Reid retorts, grinding down again. "But yes, actually, good."

Rossi grins. "Glad I get to be the one to drive you to say things that don't make sense." He slides his hands around to grope Reid's ass, which makes Reid's eyes widen. "Now tell me how I can make you say things that don't even have actual words."

"What languages?" Reid asks, leaning back down close and whispering, “I'm fluent in several, and passable in others."

"If I can't make you forget English, I'll have been doing something wrong."

Reid's already ragged breath catches, and he catches Rossi's lips with his own. "I'll admit to being fascinated by how one man could be the reason the Bureau has no-fraternization rules -- is the sex really that insanely good?"

Rossi raises both eyebrows. "Was that a challenge, Dr. Reid?"

"If you'd like it to be, Agent Rossi," Reid replies, voice low and husky, rolling his hips. Rossi groans and reaches between them, rubbing at both of them through their clothes and Reid whines becomingly.

"That's a good start," Rossi gasps.

Reid looks at him with lidded eyes. He pushes down, pinning Rossi's hand between them. "Didn't you say I'm wearing too many clothes?"

“I might’ve,” Rossi replies, giving Reid his best challenging expression.

A slow, Cheshire grin spreads over Reid’s face. Slowly, he starts pulling up his shirt, exposing the white plain of his stomach inch by inch. Eventually he yanks it over his head, despite the buttons, and discards it. “Better?” he asks, his hands dragging down his chest and stomach.

“Hell yes,” Rossi gasps out. He reaches up to touch, and the difference in their complexions his striking – Reid looking like he’s never seen the sun, and Rossi’s hand tan and Italian against that white skin. It’s a heady contrast, and Rossi quickly decides he might never tire of it. He gently brushes his fingers over Reid’s stomach and up to his nipples, which are already hard pink nubs. Reid whimpers when Rossi touches them. He grins. “Like that, don’t you?”

Reid nods, voiceless, and grinds down on Rossi again. Then he gathers himself and leans down, kissing him hot and hard. “Very much.”

Rossi shrugs out of his shirt and it lays crumpled beneath them. He starts in on his own pants, keeping one hand moving over Reid’s chest to distract him as he undoes his belt and fly. Reid catches on, though, and moves up onto his hands and knees over Rossi.

The smile on his face is positively predator-esque, eyes intense and shining. “You know what else I would like?” he whispers, leaning down to Rossi’s ear.

“What?”

“For us to be naked. Right now.” There is something slightly hoarse in his voice, and Rossi finds his hands shoving at his pants and underwear until he is naked underneath a half-clothed, debauched-looking Spencer Reid.

The entire experience is surreal, but Rossi counts his blessings and pulls Reid’s face down so he can kiss him. You don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth, after all.

Reid shifts his weight so he can run a hand down Rossi’s chest and abdomen, stopping briefly to tangle in his chest hair. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Rossi’s, though, and the eye contact is searingly intense. His hand is slow and then he brushes his hand against Rossi’s erection. Rossi’s hips twitch reflexively, and Reid’s face splits into a grin again. It’s good, too good.

“That’s much better,” Reid murmurs. His hand slides along Rossi’s cock again, and Rossi groans. “Yes, much better.”

Rossi can’t help but agree, but he does his best to keep his head. “You’ve still got…you’ve still got pants on,” he breathes as Reid’s hand stills and then moves across his hip. “You might wanna fix that. Hahh…Or maybe you don’t.”

“Oh, right,” Reid says, chuckling. “I was a little…distracted.”

He shucks his pants and underwear like a pro – oh, Rossi did not have to think of that – and then drapes himself over Rossi. His eyes are still dark, and the lights are still on, and they are naked together in a bed in Tennessee. “Hi,” he whispers into Rossi’s ear.

“Hello,” Rossi replies, shifting under him just a little. They brush against each other, and then they both gasp in unison.

It feels like the world is changing. It honestly does, and Rossi faces the change like he faces everything else – with a steady heart and sharp tongue. “You gonna do that again?”

“Y-yeah.” Reid kisses him, and grinds down, straddling Rossi as he presses them together.

Rossi gasps in a breath at the simple, unassuming motion and responds, rocking against Reid. He moves his hands up to clasp Reid’s hips, slender as they are, and Reid tangles his hands in his hair.

They roll over, and then Rossi finds himself above Reid. His hair is flopping in and out of his face as he squirms, and Rossi brushes it out of the way. He leans down and presses another kiss to his lips, wondering at his luck – because, with all he’s managed to achieve in over half a century of life, all of the things and people he’s known and saved, there’s no way he could have ever planned for something like this.

Pinned beneath him, Reid rocks up, grinding them together. It’s perfect and wanton, and finally they are beyond words.

The next few minutes are spent in a breathy near-silence, broken only by the slide of skin on skin and their occasional groans. Rossi feels his arms straining as he holds himself up and Reid snakes a shaking hand between them, groping them both blindly until he has them both in hand.

It takes three exquisite tugs before Rossi comes, groaning out Reid’s name like a litany. Reid follows him soon after, and as his hand falls away, Rossi moves onto his side and drops onto the bed.

They are slick and sweaty, and now they are too exhausted to move.

Reid turns to face him and give him a kiss that is satisfied and warm, and Rossi finds himself beginning to fall asleep.

He wonders, briefly, as he drifts off, what the morning after will be like.

Somehow, he thinks it will be the best he’s had in a very, very long time.

_Finis._

_“Whoa, oh, come take my hand;  
We’re ridin’ out tonight to case the Promised Land.  
Oh, oh, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road.”_  
~ “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen


End file.
